The Timpanist
by pretty-hungry
Summary: To be a timpanist is to represent the Capitol. We are living reminders that mistakes are scrubbed from the stones like blood, covered in a layer of makeup until they become part of the message…the Capitol always wins. A short story about the people playing drums and how they got there.


The Timpanist

For all of us, there was a time before we were here.

The woman next to me, face made up as proud as you please, was a politician.

The man to my right, arms held tightly at his side, was a technician.

I know their stories almost as well as I know my own. I carry them as close to my heart as the soul-rattling beat of the huge drums. They're all we have. We've lost the rest to our new images.

In the distance, horses clop towards us. They do not whinny. Their heads do not stray. Like us, they are too well trained.

A line of arms whips up in one fluid moment.

We stare ahead, like cold, marble statues.

We beat the war drums as the children emerge, drowning out all of the noises save for the stories ringing in my ears.

May those never fade.

Before, my name was Stephen. I was from District 10. This had to be a mistake.

That was what I screamed as I was dragged from my bed.

I wasn't stupid. I had noticed the Peacekeepers staring at me all day. I'd noticed their cold eyes on me as I had walked among the crowd in the morning, blithely chomping on an apple. Kaylee had laughed at me, telling me I looked like a horse. A stupid horse, at that.

"At least I'm a fed horse," I said around a mouthful of sweet fruit. My eyes locked on one of them, and our eyes met. A chill ran through me.

"Stephen."

I started, my eyes snapping to Kaylee. Her eyes were wide. She had seen them too.

We pointedly looked at the heads in front of us and tried to pretend the shivers running across our skin were just a breeze that didn't exist.

It turns out that hell is fluorescent lighting and the sounds of dripping.

I hung from the ceiling like a piece of meat waiting to be butchered. I wasn't sure what I waited for. Perhaps the meat on my bones to disappear so that my arms could slip through the shackles.

No. I had thought through that too many times. My hands were far too wide for that to work without snapping my thumb, and I couldn't do that with just my body weight and the shackles.

I waited for my life to go back. For this to reveal itself to be some nasty dream.

There were boots in my line of vision. I was trying to ignore them. Maybe they would give me mercy and leave.

A hot burst of pain explodes on my cheek. A moment too late, I hear the sharp noise echoing through the cell.

Another slap. A crack. My nose.

In the distance, I hear a scream. It is too shrill to be mine. I wonder if this person knows mine as well as I know hers.

My body slumps against the chains. Blood drips onto the floor, collecting in fat little drops among the other dried liquids on the floor. I wonder once more if the punishment matches the crime.

Her name was Lucy. At least, that was her name as far as I was concerned. As far as the Capitol was concerned, she was dead.

There were a lot of storage rooms in the bovine complex that had not been used in years. Most were filled with dusty tools of the trade. Some had feed buckets, others had antiquated milking machines that had not been used in a couple of decades. They went to ruin, these storage rooms. The one I had chosen was in a dark corner of the complex where I was certain no one went. It was guarded by what looked to be a hefty lock that was secretly useless. It was empty save for Lucy.

She had been a runt. They'd marked her for slaughter, meaning they thought she would be useless and would just take room and food from other, more useful, cows. Had the Capitol seen her escape, she would have been shot on the spot. Fortunately, I was the one who found the calf wandering among the hallways, crying faintly for a mother she would never find.

It took months for me to properly outfit the room for habitation by a creature. I moved dusty ropes and machines out, sneaking hay and feed in. I'd chosen one with a large bathtub and access to an old waste receptacle. It would get clogged eventually, as I'd realized when I found the thing, but that was an issue for another time. It had been a medical room once, and it suited Lucy nicely. Of course, she wanted friends and sunlight, but just her life was a privilege she didn't realize she'd been given. Sneaking around to tend to her wasn't ideal- getting enough food to keep Lucy alive became an issue more than once- but she was my one secret, and I didn't take that lightly.

"You have done well lately."

I did not know much about this man save for his name- Caesar, like the host, but not as hospitable. I knew that he had somehow become the man in charge of my fate.

I was allowed a bed, if you could call the cold metal slab I slept on a bed. I looked dully at him from on that bed, going to mutter a thank you before I remembered. It was too late- a choking, inarticulate gurgle came from my throat. I had no tongue to stop it.

Caesar laughed. The sound was too opulent for the cell it echoed in. "Perhaps you should save your breath," he said, an odd smile on his lips. "It's a big day for you."

I eyed him warily, not trusting the glint in his eyes. Or maybe it was my imagination.

Two guards marched in, their pressed uniforms looking as out of place as Caesar's gelled grin. They grasped my arms, pulling me from my rest. My legs hit the edge of the bed with a thump, a flash of pain that means nothing shooting through my feet. "Take him," Caesar says carelessly. "And get someone to clean in here," he says as an afterthought, nose wrinkling at the cloud of stench my movement sends through the room. I turn away from him as I am dragged into the bright hallway. Into a new nightmare.

The bed creaks. I feel warmth against my back, breath tickling the hair at the nape of my neck. Soft lips tickle my earlobe. I hear an intake of breath, and then, "What are you doing in my bed?" I can hear the smile in her voice.

I turn my head just enough so that I can see her face. Her eyes are dark, playful. I feign surprise. "My apologies, ma'am. I thought this was my bed." I lift myself as if to leave. Her arms grip my torso, pulling me back to her. I roll over, pulling her slim body into a hug. My hands nestle in her hair, made liquid gold by the candlelight. She leans into my touch. My head nestles in the crook of her neck, my lips gently touching the delicate skin there. I hear her breathing deepen, feel her fingers against my back. I shiver lightly, nipping her skin with my teeth. She gasps, her nails digging into me.

I wrap my arms more tightly around her and flip her under me. We gain momentum. Lips explore skin, clothes shift and expose waists, hands roam freely. Her gasps turn to moans. I melt into her with a progression of broken gasps. It feels different this time. It feels like the end. Or perhaps that's retrospect speaking.

After, I hold her in my arms. She nestles into me. I inhale the clean scent of her hair, relishing in the knowledge that she is mine…maybe not officially yet. She doesn't know about the ring in the pocket of my pants, crumpled in a ball on the floor. I'm too scared to ask. I'm afraid of messing up somehow. I'm more afraid of being without her.

"Kaylee," I whisper. She murmurs incoherently. I smile, my arms tightening around her. "I love you," I whisper.

That was when they kicked the door open.

There wasn't much to learn. The drums- timpani, as they were called- were to be hit in the center of the head. The rhythms were all steady patterns that were meant to ring majestically through the courtyard, signifying the magnitude of the presentation of the tributes. We were all issued our own set of mallets at the beginning of our training. They were hard and heavy, meant to make the loudest noise possible. Dire consequences were associated with taking them with us. We were all smooth and flawless, given a full body polish so as to look like the shining pillars of the Capitol. Before each ceremony, we were ushered into chairs and covered in cosmetics. We became, like our instruments, copper statues. Unlike our instruments, we Avoxes were silent.

The first I talked was to the tall woman who stood beside me in formation. We met at mealtimes. It was eerie eating in a nearly silent dining hall. Silverware scraped plates, plates scraped tables, but there was no conversation. Not that you could hear. There were occasional choked laughs, like sandpaper to the ears at first. It took me a while, but I began picking up on the frantic hand gestures being exchanged above tables. Commentary on the tributes, on the antics of the guards, on everything and nothing.

I didn't understand the girl much at first. She taught me slowly but impatiently, her hands rapid, her lips exasperatedly mouthing that which I was not quick enough to understand. While an ineffective teacher, she taught nonetheless, and I figured enough out to learn her story.

Her name was Claudia. She was born and raised in the Capitol. She had purple hair when she was younger. She had been a secretary to a secretary to an assistant to the president. Her crime had been accidental. She had read a report that she hadn't meant to, one that was above her clearance level. She told me in smooth gestures that she'd convinced them that she hadn't read more than the cover page. She informed me that she had…that she'd read the whole report. It told of breaks in the system- of missing textiles and sabotaged electronics, of stockpiled livestock and ruined crops. She looked around to see if guards were paying us any mind before signing a word I didn't quite understand. It was a fist, lifted to her face, then lifted out, palm facing me. I looked at her confused. She twisted around, her face urgent, before mouthing _revolt._

I learned the story of the man beside me in snippets. In between rehearsals, on the way to wherever we were going, he told me that he was from District 1. He was a diamond technician, turning chunks of raw carbon into the sparkling rocks. His crime, like mine, was thievery. He snuck waste diamonds destined for waste. He figured no one would notice. His flaw was that he simply collected them in a small bag in his house. The Peacekeepers caught him when they ran across his daughter, who had unearthed the bag and played with the uncut diamonds as if they were ordinary stones from the road. He had been taken here. He had no idea what happened to his daughter. He did not cry at the memory. This story had lost all meaning to him. It was just a flicker of the past.

To be a timpanist is to represent the Capitol. We are tall, noble. Our hearts are hidden from the world. Our booming drums rattle the bones of those who would dare defy the rules. We are living reminders that mistakes are scrubbed from the stones like blood, covered in a layer of makeup until they become part of the message…the Capitol always wins. Anything before is but a story, burning in the torches that line the courtyard, dying like children in the arena.


End file.
